Shattering
by hulklinging
Summary: Sometimes you need someone else to help you pick up the pieces. A post-WWI AU.
Theodore may have left the war behind, but there are some things that stick to him, like a shake in his hands, like the weight on his shoulders.

So when he hears a crash downstairs on one of those nights where sleep evades him, he is immediately wide awake, hand reaching for a knife he no longer carries. He curses under his breath, reminds himself that the trenches are an ocean and a nightmare away, and creeps downstairs.

There's a light in the communal kitchen, flickering. A burglar wouldn't use a candle (and what is there to steal here? They're all young men with nowhere else to go, runaways and refugees, servant's sons and soldiers who don't fit into the holes they left anymore). Theodore forces another breath through frozen lungs, reminds himself that the air is friendly here, and walks into the kitchen.

A strange sight greets him. A dark haired stranger sits on the floor, surrounded by broken glass and blood, _seeping from bodies that he used to know, who knew a person held that much life, and now it's all leaving, dark red mixing with the mud-_

Theodore blinks, bites back a scream, and the scene rights itself. It's just some preserves. A jar broke. That's all.

His stifled cry makes the man look up, and he's really just a boy, can't be much older than Theodore's own nineteen years. He tries to wipe away the tears, but even in the low light of the single candle it's obvious he's been weeping.

"Are you alright?" Theodore asks the stranger. Hands up, voice low and calm, like he's talking a soldier down from the lip of their trench. The other men in his regiment had often joked that if he would just go over and talk to the Germans, the war would have ended much quicker.

Theodore had laughed along with them, and definitely not mentioned that he spoke fluent German, had learned it from his mother. His father had met his mother abroad, and brought her home only to die shortly after, in some seafaring accident his mother still couldn't bring herself to talk about.

The voice seemed to work on his companion too, because his chest is moving slower, the panic in his eyes fading.

"I'm sorry for waking you," he says finally. He has an accent like Theodore does, one that's forced. One that hides an accent less British, most likely. Theodore looks at him with a fresh eye, wonders if what he's hiding is German or Polish even Russian. The boy stares back with dark eyes made of steel.

"I was already up," Theodore offers, and bends down to start picking up the glass with careful fingers. "Let me help?"

The boy nods, and between the two of them, they get the glass cleaned up in short order. The flinch as Theodore moves to throw the glass shards away doesn't go unnoticed.

"Did you want to...?" He offers the glass to the boy, even though it's hardly good for anything now. Theodore knows first hand how many spaces were never filled by returning soldiers, knows that people cling to the strangest things to make those holes seem a little less gaping.

The boy shakes his head, but he does slide the metal rim of the jar over one boy wrist. Theodore doesn't draw attention to it.

"Sorry. It's just jam. I shouldn't have-" his voice catches, and Theodore can't help himself. He reaches out, in this strange space between dusk and dawn, the hours he used to spend praying for the bodies he had helped create and the skin he shouldn't touch. He reaches out, grasps the boy's shoulder, offers a comforting smile.

"It's okay. The war's made a lot of things scarce."

The boy jumps at the touch, but doesn't pull away. Instead, he turns to shoot Theodore a grateful smile.

"You're not wrong." He rubs at his temple, and then offers Theodore his hand.

"William."

"Theodore."

They shake hands, just like any young men meeting in the middle of the night.

"My brother brought home that jam, right before he enlisted. He wouldn't tell me where he got it, which probably means he stole it." His laugh is soft, beautiful even when it's self deprecating. "He had a bad habit of that. I tried to tell him off for it, but I will be honest, his quick hands probably saved our lives more times than I can count." Theodore watches him pull him words back, like they need to be rationed just like sugar, like he'll run out if he's not careful.

"I'm sorry," Theodore whispers, because he knows the soldiers who live in this boarding house, knows none of them are here with a brother.

William shrugs, body curling in on itself, making himself smaller with his grief. "He disappeared somewhere in Belgium. Like a lot of soldiers did."

Theodore remembers.

He shakes his head, tries to banish the smell of gas, of blood, and he thinks he does a pretty good job of it, but William is staring at him with concerned eyes, and he's clutching his hand in a vice grip.

"It's my turn to apologize," William says quickly, leading Theodore over to the counter so that he can lean against it, like he's some child who can't handle the mention of death, like he's gone weak with consumption like his mother. "I should have realized you were a soldier, and won't want to think about it."

"It's all I think about," Theodore admits, because there are apparently so secrets here, because there's something about this young man next to him that makes him say the things he never lets himself put into words. "It's everything. Everywhere."

William nods, like he understands, and he can't really, not unless he was there, but Theodore doesn't bother to correct him. They just sit together, the silence between them warm with something new, as the sun comes up.

The war is over, the world awaits. Theodore never thought to let go of William's hand, but William doesn't seem to mind.


End file.
